friend whom adversity could not estrange.

An eloquent silence fell upon the room, broken only by sobs, grateful
whispers, and the voiceless vows that lovers plight with eyes, and
hands, and tender lips. Helen was forgotten, till Lillian, whose elastic
spirit threw off sorrow as a flower sheds the rain, looked up to thank
Paul, with smiles as well as tears, and saw the lonely figure in the
shadow. Her attitude was full of pathetic significance; she still stood
on the threshold, for no one had welcomed her, and in the strange room
she knew not where to go; her hands were clasped before her face, as if
those sightless eyes had seen the joy she could not share, and at her
feet lay the time-stained paper that gave her a barren title, but no
love. Had Lillian known how sharp a conflict between passion and pride,
jealousy and generosity, was going on in that young heart, she could not
have spoken in a tone of truer pity or sincerer goodwill than that in
which she softly said, "Poor girl! We must not forget her, for, with all
her wealth, she is poor compared to us. We both had one father, and
should love each other in spite of this misfortune. Helen, may I call
you sister?"

"Not yet. Wait till I deserve it."

As if that sweet voice had kindled an answering spark of nobleness in
her own heart, Helen's face changed beautifully, as she tore the paper
to shreds, saying in a glad, impetuous tone, while the white flakes
fluttered from her hands, "I, too, can be generous. I, too, can forgive.
I bury the sad past. See! I yield my claim, I destroy my proofs, I
promise eternal silence, and keep 'Paul's cousin' for my only title.
Yes, you are happy, for you love one another!" she cried, with a sudden
passion of tears. "Oh, forgive me, pity me, and take me in, for I am all